bakerstreet | Ghost of a Chance

Ghost of a Chance

( inspired by a fairly obscure video game, Love Story )

Here's the thing - you're dead. No matter your precautions or lack thereof, you've reached the end of the line. Rotten luck, huh? Actually, you're one of the lucky ones, because you've been sent back. As a ghost, admittedly, but at least one person can see you.

And that's key. The conditions of your return, both to the mortal coil and, eventually, back to your body, is that you get them, your sole witness, to fall in love with you.

Oh, you also have six days. Easy enough.

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[Oooh. This is perfect for her. I'm willing to play her cross canon, too, and change up her death if need be.]

[ The living party. ]

[ open. ]

[Interested?. It's fine if you want to pass.]

[ Totally down for it! Come at me bro. ]

[As much of a farce as her wedding had been, Tyrion himself had been kind at least, during the time they'd been wed, and for that she was grateful, given she'd not had much of that since her father's execution.

Of course, her marriage hadn't lasted all that long and when she was taken from King's landing it was with a sense of relief, and being taken to her aunt?

Well, it had not gone as she had expected. She'd handled it though, as gracefully as she could, and when she was given charge over her cousin, it was something to keep her busy.

She was always exhausted when she retired to her rooms in the evenings though, and tonight was no different as she worked the brush through her now dark hair. ]

[ Let it never be said that the veil had poor craftsmanship. The walls and halls of the castle were built by northerners, by men who know all there is to know about cold and how to keep it out. Despite that, however, a low and rolling breeze stirs to life within the confines of Sansa's room. It starts gently, innocuously, stirring the hangings and trappings of her bed, the curtains, the tapestries, and eventually, ruffles her neatly brushed hair.

It grows in strength and persistence, flipping pages of books, disorganizing papers, flickering and eventually snuffing the candles keeping her room alight. With the breeze comes a hollow dread, a feeling that is somehow both empty and alive, as though she weren't alone but rather filled with a most lonely company.

Distantly, bizarre though it may seem, if she listens closely enough, Sansa may hear her name whispering within the draft. ]

[Ghost stories and other tales had been a fixture of her childhood and she can well remember curling under her blankets during the nights, staring at the corners of her room like she expected something to appear there. Arya and Bran had loved those stories, but she never had.

The chill in what had been had a reasonably warm room had her lifting her head slowly, her gaze moving over the corners of the room and then everything the breeze touches.

And then there's a moment where it catches her hair and Sansa forgets to breathe, her skin losing what little color it had held to that point. ]

Is...someone there?

[Part of her is almost praying it is a ghost and not just her mind playing tricks on her. Her mother, father, maybe even Robb come back to visit and that has her straightening her shoulders as she moves to her feet. ]

[ What was a soft whisper slowly builds, the almost inaudible mutter of Sansa... Sansa... Sansa... Sansa... rising in cadence and urgency. Her door, parted a bit but still open, flutters and then firmly shuts. As it does, the room abruptly stills. The curtains settle, the smoke from the candles dissipates, there is no breeze to speak of, and despite that, the urgent echo of her name continues. It comes from nowhere in particular, an ethereal and multidimensional sounding murmur, a raspy voice that echoes through her bedchamber.]

Sansa... Sansa, it's alright, it's-

[ A pause, punctuated by a guttural cough and the clearing of his throat. ]

Oh, for god's sake-

[ A suddenly familiar voice snaps in irritation, breaking the haunting spell with an untimely and almost comical frustration. ]

Is this all really necessary? Yes, yes, I know what I'm to do, but can we perhaps skip the theatrics? We're liable to give the poor girl a heart attack.

[ Those last two rhetorical questions are not, apparently, directed at her. The haunting voice of Tyrion Lannister seems to be addressing something beyond this realm with very little patience and no real regard. With very little further to-do and a cheated sense of mystery, the visage of the smallest lion in house Lannister fades into view somewhere just off from the foot of her bed. He glances down at himself, brushes his shirt off, smooths out the wrinkles, then casts an annoyed glance at her ceiling. ]

Thank you for doing such a marvelous job restoring our collective faith in the afterlife.

[ S a r c a s m. Now is definitely the time and the place for it, right? ]

Edited 2015-12-13 05:44 (UTC)

[And Sansa's just standing there, her gaze settling on the figure of her now dead husband and she can breathe again. Thing is, a moment later, she's sitting on the side of the bed, her shoulders shaking just a little as she buries her face in her hands to try to muffle herself.

But the sound of a choked laugh escapes, the tension in her body fading as she laughs into her hands helplessly. It's not that she's really amused by the situation as much as it had to come out somehow and the tone of his voice...

When she finally calms, she lifts her head, wiping at her eyes.] I admit, you are not exactly who I was expecting to see, my lord.

[The title slips out naturally, Sansa smiling and for a moment, almost looking like the girl she'd been when he'd first seen her at Winterfell. ]

Not that your presence is unwelcome.

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